Around some of the world in just one coat

Speaking of classics, as we were, here is something that once was classic to me but is no more. I've grown a little weary of it's shapeless bulk and fundamentally unflattering lines. Before it goes to the op shop, I'm taking this opportunity to document its service to me:  readers, I give you my blue coat, which has coddled me through four northern hemisphere winters, driven me mad by rasping my neck when I've omitted to wear a scarf and kept dry countless train tickets and bags of sweeties in its cavernous pockets. My blue coat has been with me when I have...

 ...eaten the best hot chips in the world (Six Nations Rugby match, Murryfield, Edinburgh)















...celebrated some birthdays

 ...considered a career change

...scoured markets 

...stood on the international dateline...

...fed the locals

...sampled indigenous foods

...visited some of my heroes

...crossed some bridges

...felt perfectly safe amongst some of great masterpieces of the nineteenth century

...hung out at the library (this is my favourite building in the world)

...visited historical battle fields

...relished the rain

....and shopped.

Au revoir, blue coat! I hope your next owner has as much fun with you as I have.

Colour therapy

A long time between drinks - not intentional, more the result of a busy job and a bout of self-inflicted illness. I did the Dukan diet for a week and truly believe I poisoned myself with cottage cheese. To redeem myself and restore order to my world I present a small presentation called Primary Colours. It stars three necklaces:


This wonderful bold piece is from an op shop on the NSW south coast. I was on a road trip with an old treasured friend who indulged me with stops at all the little towns where there were op shops. She was driving (I can't) and sang Kookaburra Kookaburra What's So Funny from Sydney to the edge of the Great Ocean Road and back again. The beads are glass and the clasp is silver and marcasites. The beads work wonders with a plain white shirt and black skirt and cost me a dollar.


These subtle cloudy beads are from the farmer's market in Bayeux. Among the stalls filled with eggs, breads of every colour and texture, vegetables, live chickens and fruits was a man who seemed to know the location and contents of every basement and shed in France. He had a wonderful array of things - most of which were broken and charming - and in amongst his clutter were these. I love the clasp, I love their cool weight. And yes, I definitely saw the tapestry. I had studied it at University and argued an hour with my tutor that the tapestry was made by women. When I saw it close up I knew straight away I'd been wrong: it was definitely made by men. I wondered if I should write my old tutor a letter. Anyway, a wonderful glass necklace with a beautiful sterling silver clasp. Five euros. I wear these with grey and purple dresses and am always delighted by how they wake up a plain white white jumper.

These are the second last last thing I bought in New York. They are as heavy as a bag of bears and are unmatched for juicy citrus cheer when the sun hits them. I assume they are citrine quartz but when I wear them I am convinced they are citrines, the rarest and most precious of gems. They're from the Sloane Kettering Thrift Store on Third Avenue, a thrift store that changed my view of op-shopping for all time. They were expensive - $120 - but I was flying back to Sydney that afternoon and very sad to be leaving the city that looked after us so well for eighteen days. The last thing I bought in New York was a bowl of oatmeal and coffee in EJ's diner. (Just the thought makes me want a cup of diner coffee with some half and half.) I love wearing these beads - they look perfect with floral dresses, silk blouses and tweed jackets - every time I wear them I remember something else I love about New York.

The washing up

When people say, "so what did you like best about New York?" I squint and waggle my head a little, trying to dislodged the badly shaped sentences because there is no one thing to like best. King Kong isn't there, I didn't see the Northern lights, Truman Capote didn't meet me for lunch at the Moonstruck diner.

It was everything, I try to explain. I saw Christopher Walkin on stage in an excellent play, I went to charity shops that sold mint condition pieces of Max Mara and Pucci like it was no big deal, the cook in my favourite diner used fresh peas in my vege plate, there were black squirrels in Central Park who posed agaist piles of snow, I could buy Bumble and Bumble shampoo in Target, the architecture is beautiful, the cemetries outside of Manhattan are enormous, the news stands sell Twizzlers.

And that's just start. I've been home for three weeks now, unpacked all my loot, settled the cast iron cat on the kitchen table and stared wistfully at my photos. We had such a great time. We couldn't live there, we don't think. Paris, easily, London, probably. Ireland, certainly. But New York City is such a massive concept. If you live there you'd would trouble leaving. In some ways it is its own world, completely unconnected to this world the rest of us live in.

But we'll definitely go back. I can't wait.

So to put New York and indeed March 2010 to bed, here's few more photos. In a day or so there'll be another unrelated blog about giving up poetry and then this will probably turn into one of those "I love all my clothes and yours too" blogs.

Happy times.

The whole of the world

Pilots might think they own the world and with good reason. There must be thousands of them circling it from nine kilometres above at any given moment. It's their office. Yesterday the pilot told us to look out the right hand side windows for a great view of the Grand Canyon. A few minutes later (or maybe a couple of hours, I'd taken horse doses of valium to alleviate my conviction that I will die in an incident that will feature on Air Crash Investigation) he told us to look out the left hand side at a magnificent view of Central Park and the Statue of Liberty. It was his for that time, his work place, the view from his office.

And now it's mine for a few weeks.

New York is a giant of salad of everything you could imagine in this world and all the things you can't too. Last night at 9pm I found myself gape-mouthed in the shampoo aisle in the Food Emporium; a second later I was trying to choose cereal. Every single box had a good reason as to why it was the best. I chose the one that was guaranteed to taste better than Kellogg's All Bran but be better for me. There were fourteen different types of skim milk and more species of peanut butter than roses. Out on the street there are piles of snow trimmed with black grit; people wear heavy coats with little frames of fur around their face.

We had dinner at a pizza place that Oprah had declared sold the best pizza in New York. It said so on the door. I am unable to verify her claim because I opted for the spaghetti marinara. It was heavy with clams and onions and, in my non-Oprah opinion, very lovely.

There are dogs, lots of big muscly proud fellows in black, tan and beige. The pigeons are vari-coloured (none of those storm cloud hued things you see in London) and the one cat I've seen was small fruitcake coloured kitten in a cage at Los Angeles airport. Her name was Nuala and she was en-route from Hawaii to Munich with her pale haired, somewhat bohemian owner. "She's a bit mental at the moment," Frauline Boho told me. Well, long haul trips can be stressful, even more so in a plastic cage. I asked if Nuala had to travel in cargo but no, it appears she was allowed to travel up front with the human passengers. Apparently this is because of her age. Kittens don't count as burdensome luggage.

Our lodgings are beautiful and very comfortable but I doubt the shower is going to win any awards for substantial use of water pressure. (My father was a plumber. Appreciation for good water pressure is in my genes.)

Today: wandering aimlessly to get our bearings. And the cereal actually was nicer than Kellogg's All Bran.